


Born To Be Together

by flowercrownclem



Category: Freak Party, The Hoax, The Smiths
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, The Smiths never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowercrownclem/pseuds/flowercrownclem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Johnny never went and knocked on Morrissey's door, or what if Morrissey didn't answer or what if *millions of variations on they never got together*?<br/>Johnny and Moz only ever met in passing and Morrissey gave up on music years ago, running a secondhand book shop and is still living in his mother's house. Johnny couldn't let music go and works giving kids guitar lessons and playing shows with Andy.<br/>Fait still brings them together though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What is Love?

June 7, 1985  
Steven Morrissey was a recluse. He was known around town as a sort of a mad genius. Too weird to associate with but looked at with a strange fascination. The young man still lived in his mother’s house at the ripe age of 26, only leaving the house each day to tend to his shop. He’d run the small secondhand book store for the past year and it gathered just enough traffic to keep itself open.  
He’d tried his hand at a few different professions but none seemed to stick. Everyone had assumed he’d become a writer but he’d come to find that very few had interest in his words, putting away his scribble-filled notebooks and cringing at his largely unread published works. He’d even tried turning to his other love, music, but that’d had roughly the same result. He’d auditioned for various local bands but the auditions never lead to anything real. Eventually he’d just given up and turned to old paperbacks and dusty book sleeves.  
Steven unlocked the door to his shop, flicking on each light and taking his place behind the front counter, pulling a book onto his lap and waiting for the first customers of the day to filter in.

Johnny Marr could never seem to get music out from under his skin. It’d lodged itself in there seemingly from the second he was born and had refused to vacate his mind and body. His obsession had gotten so bad that it’d ruined any chance of a romantic relationship for him. His longest relationship had been with a girl named Angie, who’d eventually gotten tired of his refusal to get a “real job,” one that might support any hope for a family. He just could never give up the hope that he might finally make it some day.  
Ever since he was 18 he’d been living off of what he made teaching children to play guitar and working as a session musician whenever he could. It wasn’t a steady flow of money but it was the best he could seem to do. He also got to play gigs some weekends with his best friend, Andy, but the bands they started every few months or so never lasted and never went anywhere but a few shows, played only for fun.  
It was the start of summer, time for him to spread flyers for summer music lessons which would make him part-instructor, part-babysitter for the next few months. He didn’t mind though, he liked kids and it was great watching them learn how to play music.  
He walked through the streets, tacking up flyers anywhere he could think families might go. He nearly passed by one doorway before noticing the small sign beside the door, reading “Used Books.” He shrugged, figuring that families always seemed to be buying books for their kids, and popped his head into the shop.  
He looked around, taking in the piled of books, stacked everywhere. Faded and worn covers completely filled the space, permeating the air with the smell of old ink and warm paper. The only semi-free space was around a large desk in the middle of the room, and even that had smaller stacks of books nearly covering it.  
Over the stacks of books Johnny could see the top of a boy’s head, his quiff bobbing lightly to the music playing softly through the store. “What Is Love?,” by the Shangri-Las, Johnny smiled in recognition. He stepped more fully into the shop, walking towards the desk and seeing more of the boy behind the desk with each step. He saw that behind the boy’s thick glasses his eyes were downcast to a well-worn book in his hands.  
“Hello?” Johnny asked, leaning against the desk.  
“Oh, hello,” Steven looked up, startled. “I’m sorry, can I help you find anything?”  
“I was just wondering if I could put one of my flyers in your window?” Johnny asked, holding out the flyer to show what it was.  
“I don’t see why not,” Steven told him, stepping out from behind the desk and examining the shop windows before gesturing to a free space, “You could put it right here if you like.”  
“Great, thank you!” Johnny grinned, pulling out a bit of blue tape.  
“You give guitar lessons?” Steven asked, watching Johnny put up his flyer.  
“Yeah,” Johnny told him, glancing back as he straightened the paper.  
“How long have you played?”  
“God, it feels like forever,” Johnny laughed, “It really depends on what you mean by ‘played.’ Got my first guitar at two-and-a-half and never looked back to be honest. I couldn’t play well until my friend taught me some stuff when I was maybe twelve, though. Do you?”  
“Hmm?” Steven asked, tilting his head.  
“Do you play?”  
“Oh, no. I tried once or twice but I was awful,” Steven said, a light blush on his cheeks.  
“Maybe you just need a good teacher,” Johnny told him cheekily, grinning.  
“I’m not sure even the best could teach me. I’m quite the hopeless case, I’m afraid,” Steven returned Johnny’s grin, turning back to his desk.  
“Have you got any music books?” Johnny asked.  
“Oh yes!” Steven said excitedly, jumping up and leading Johnny towards the back of the shop. “What kind are you looking for?”  
“Not sure,” Johnny giggled at Steven’s excitement. “Do you have any suggestions?”  
“Well it depends on what you like. I’ve got a few books of sheet music and that sort of thing but those are boring if you don’t know how to play any instrument so I usually just keep books about music. Do you like the Velvet Underground? I’ve got a nice book about them that just came in.”  
“Sure,” Johnny held out his hands, allowing Steven to pile them with books from the music shelf.  
“Have you read all of these?” Johnny asked as they walked to a small table to lay out the books Steven had handed him.  
“Most of them. This shop has a lot of books so I can’t read every single one of them but I read the ones that interest me.”  
“And the music books interest you?” Johnny filled in, sorting through the new pile of books.  
“I guess. I used to read anything I could get my hands on about it. It’s just... interesting,” he finished lamely.  
“Do you only read about it, or do you listen to it too?” Johnny teased.  
“Oh I’ve got a collection of 45s that I’m very proud of, I can assure you,” Steven grinned. “I don’t get out to too many shows anymore though, too busy with my shop.”  
“You’ve got to come out tomorrow night!” Johnny exclaimed. “My friend and I have a gig at this pub down the road! You have to come see it- it’ll be terrible, I promise. You’ll love it.”  
“I’ll see if I can make it,” Steven smiled.  
“Good. If you have any questions my phone number’s on my flyer. Oh, my name’s Johnny by the way!”  
“I’m Steven.” They shook hands, butterflies fluttering through both of their stomachs. They walked back to the front desk with their shoulders brushing, where Johnny bought the Velvet Undergound book with a grin.


	2. Crak Therapy

June 8, 1985  
Steven had locked up the shop early, going home to get ready for Johnny’s show. He took extra time styling his quiff and carefully pinned a few badges to his tweed coat. He wasn’t sure what Johnny’s inviting him to his gig meant, if that counted as a date or not when one half was on stage and the other was in the audience, and if Johnny had even thought of the invitation in that way. Either way he was long past due to get out of the house.  
When he got to the pub he made his way through the boisterous crowd to the bar where he ordered an ale and sat, watching the other people around him and listening in to various conversations. Before long the pub quieted down and Steven watched as Johnny appeared in front of the drum-set and microphone in one corner of the room, a guitar strung across his body.  
He glanced around the room, smiling as he adjusted the instrument on his body, a blond boy joining him with a bass and a third boy sitting behind the drumkit. Johnny’s eyes found Steven across the room and his grin widened, nodding his head slightly.  
“Hello,” Johnny stepped towards the mic, “I hope you’re all having a lovely evening. We are-” he broke off, looking to the blond boy, “What are we this time?”  
“Andy and the Rourkes!” and other boy shouted, smirking.  
“Shit, again? We were just Andy and the Rourkes last month,” Johnny complained, many of the pub’s patrons laughing.  
“That’s because it’s the best name we’ve ever had,” the blond one told him smugly.  
“Fine,” Johnny grumbled. “I’m Johnny, that’s Andy, and that’s a ‘Rourke.’ No, Andy, I refuse to be a Rourke I am my own person and there’s nothing you can do to change that,” he said matter-of-factly to the now moping boy. Steven joined the others in laughing at the antics of the boys. Johnny nodded to the drummer who started up a simple beat. When Johnny and Andy came in the crowd silenced, transfixed by the boys’ playing. Johnny grinned, his fingers shaping a different chord every second, music pouring out of his small amp. Andy’s fingers flew across his own fretboard, sliding across strings and jumping from one spot to another.  
Their music sounded like some strange mix between funk and rockabilly and Steven was fascinated. He leaned forward, watching them, his drink forgotten. Some people got up and started to dance but Steven couldn’t take his eyes off of Johnny. In between each song they would pause for a snippet of amusing stage banter and before long their set was over.  
“Alright, folks,” Johnny told everyone, “It’s time for the pub to close so by extension it means that our time playing for you has also come to a close. Please finish your drinks and make your way to the proper exits when you find it convenient.”  
“Any wallets or purses left behind will be considered tips,” Andy added with a grin, “So please be forgetful!”  
Steven lingered in his seat, nursing his ale, unsure if he should say hi to Johnny or just leave. Luckily, Johnny decided for him, slinging off his guitar and galloping over to Steven.  
“Steven!” He slid into the seat next to him eagerly, “What’d ya think?”  
“You were great!” Steven said honestly, “Really, it was very good.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes! You were amazing. How long have you been playing together?”  
“Forever,” the blond boy, Andy, answered for Johnny, coming up behind him. “Johnny and I have been playing together since we were kids. Andy and the Rourkes is definitely our best band so far though.”  
“Shut up,” Johnny laughed, “You just like the name.”  
“So?” Andy asked. “It’s not my fault ‘Johnny and the Marrs’ sounds like spacemen.”  
“It’s still a better name,” Johnny teased before turning back to Steven. “We never keep the same name for too long. The two of us have had dozens of bands now because every time we play with a new drummer the name changes. The longest one we’ve had so far was Freak Party. That one was actually the closest we’ve gotten to ‘making it.’ Did a demo and everything.”  
“The world just wasn’t ready for the smooth sounds of ‘Crak Therapy,’” Andy finished sorrowfully. “Plus we never have a frontman so we’re always stuck doing dance music instrumentals.”  
Johnny was looking at Steven strangely, examining the boy in the dim light of the pub before finally exclaiming, “Patti Smith!”  
“What about her?” Steven asked, confused.  
“That’s where I know you from! You were at that Patti Smith show a few years ago. I’d completely forgotten about that.”  
“Okay,” Steven conceded, trying to remember the night which was now a blur of music and faces.  
“Was I there?” Andy asked. “He does look familiar.”  
“I don’t think so,” Johnny told him.  
“Where do I know you from?” Andy asked, sitting down with them.  
“Um, maybe the Nosebleeds,” Steven suggested, avoiding their eyes.  
“The Nosebleeds? I think I saw them a few times. Were you a fan?”  
“I, uh, I sang for them for a bit,” Steven admitted, blushing.  
“Oh!” Andy smiled, “That’s it! You had longer hair then.”  
“You should try singing with us sometime,” Johnny suggested.  
“Yes!” Andy agreed, “That’d be brilliant.”  
“Oh, um, no thank you,” Steven looked hard at the glass in his hands, “That was years ago. I don’t, um, not anymore.”  
“Aw, I’ve got to head out,” Andy said, standing up, “but it was great meeting you...”  
“Steven,” Steven supplied.  
“Yes, it was great meeting you, Steven! Tell Johnny to invite you to more of our gigs!” Andy grabbed his bass and sauntered out the door, waving.  
“Well,” Johnny paused looking at the boy next to him, “The night is still young...?”  
“It’s nearly midnight,” Steven snorted.  
“Yes, _nearly_!” Johnny grinned, “And after that it’ll be very very early morning. That gives us tons of time!”  
“Time for what?”  
Johnny shrugged, “I’m sure we’ll find something. C’mon,” he stood, heading towards the door and throwing his guitar across his back. Steven shook his head, following him into the dark.  
They walked down the street in comfortable silence, the night air cool but bearable in their jackets.  
“Where are we going?” Steven asked quietly.  
Rather than answer, Johnny reached over to intertwine their fingers, pulling Steven across the empty street and towards a small park. He lead him through the trees along a path lined with dim lights. Before long the trees thinned out and before them was a small pond, reflecting the street lights around them. Steven smiled shyly as Johnny pulled him over to a wooden bench looking over the pond. When Johnny sat down on one end he crossed his legs, facing Steven as he sat on the other.  
“So...” Johnny dragged out the word, slipping his guitar off and leaning it gently against the bench.  
“Could you play something?” Steven asked, stopping Johnny before he let go of the instrument.  
“Sure,” Johnny grinned, pulling the guitar back into his lap. “You like the Ronettes?”  
Steven nodded, watching as Johnny started to strum out “Born To Be Together.” Transfixed by the sound of Johnny’s guitar, be began to hum where the words would be and before long he was singing along under his breath.  
“... _'Darling I love you, I love you, I love you'_  
_And I knew we were born to be together_  
_We were born to be together_  
_Baby, we were born to be together.._.”  
“That’s nice,” Johnny commented, still strumming lightly.  
“Hmm?” Steven asked, his eyes closed as he nodded along to the music.  
“Your voice,” Johnny told him.  
“Oh,” Steven’s eyes opened, his cheeks flushing, “Sorry, I didn’t even realise...”  
“No, I like it. Keep going,” Johnny instructed. Steven shook his head, looking back over the pond rather than meet Johnny’s eyes. He couldn’t seem to focus on the song anymore anyway.  
Johnny frowned, putting his guitar away and leaning his arm across the back of the bench, asking “Why don’t you like music anymore?”  
“I like music,” Steven argued.  
“You don’t seem to like it as much as you used to. I just don’t understand. I can’t imagine not being completely obsessed with music.”  
“I just,” Steven paused, looking for the right words, “moved on, I guess. There was a time when I was determined to be a pop star. But it never happened. There isn’t really any room for someone like me in music. People only want to listen to this mindless droning music nowadays and that’s not what I’d want to do.”  
“What do you want to do?” Johnny asked, resting his head on his arm and watching Steven’s profile.  
“Something important,” Steven said determinedly. “I want to do something that matters. I want people to remember me.”  
“How’s that going to happen if you’re working in a book shop?” Johnny asked, poking his side.  
“Oh it’s always the book shop owners who get remembered,” Steven grinned, “They’re the ones who have songs written about them.”  
“I could definitely see writing some songs of my own,” Johnny smiled fondly.


	3. The Hand that Rocks the Cradle

June 12, 1985  
“You’re a writer.” Steven was torn from his book as Johnny hopped up to perch on the edge of his desk. He hadn’t spoken to Johnny since Saturday night and he was beginning to wonder if he would ever hear from the boy again.  
“Used to be,” Steven corrected, not looking up from his book.  
“Why is everything ‘ _used to be_ ’ with you?” Johnny asked, leaning over his shoulder.  
“I _am_ a ‘used to be,’” Steven smirked.  
“See? Right there- that’s a writer! You can’t just stop being a writer, that’s not a thing.”  
“I can do as I please,” Steven argued. “How did you know I used to write anyway? Are you stalking me?”  
“We have mutual friends,” Johnny shrugged.  
“Who?”  
“Doesn’t matter,” Johnny said. “Why did you stop writing?”  
Steven sighed, “Same reason I stopped music. Didn’t work out.”  
“Of course it didn’t work out,” Johnny argued, “You can’t just give up. Nothing works out if you do that.”  
“Why are you so concerned with my past failures?” Steven groaned.  
“Why do you consider them failures? That sounds so final. Why can’t you try again?”  
“Because I don’t want to,” Steven told him, turning away to organize books.  
“Yes you do,” Johnny argued.  
“No I don’t,” Steven said with a tone of finality. “You don’t know what I want, Johnny. We’ve barely even met.”  
“But I do know,” Johnny said softly. “I know because I want the same thing. Don’t you see? It’s perfect. You want to write and sing and I want to play.”  
“Johnny, I can’t-”  
“Yes you can! C’mon, aren’t you at least curious? At least try it!”  
“How do you know I’ll even be any good?”  
“I just know,” Johnny said matter-of-factly.  
Steven closed his eyes, sighing. Johnny looked up at him hopefully, holding his breath as he waited for a response.  
“If I say yes will you leave me alone?”  
Johnny jumped up into the air, grinning, “If anything I’ll only get worse!”  
“I can’t wait,” Steven drawled sarcastically.  
“When can we go?” Johnny asked eagerly.  
“I have to watch the shop,” Steven pointed out.  
“But it’s a Wednesday! Nobody’s going to have some used book emergency if you close up early!”  
“But-” Steven started.  
“The sooner we go the sooner it’ll be over with,” Johnny reasoned.  
“Fine,” Steven conceded, proceeding to lock up the shop and lead Johnny outside.  
“Just let me grab my guitar. Want to meet at your house?”  
“Sure,” Steven gave him the address and they parted.  
Steven was sitting nervously in his room when the knock at the door came. He lead an over-excited Johnny up to his room and watched him marvel at every corner of the bedroom. Steven dug around to find an old shoebox in his closet, placing it on the bed. He opened the lid and began to spread out old notebooks and crumpled scraps of paper.  
“What’re those?” Johnny asked, peering over his shoulder. Steven fought the urge to shove everything back into the box and hide it away forever.  
“Songs. Or, rather, bits of them. God, I haven’t looked at these in years.”  
Johnny nodded, sitting down on the floor and starting to strum his guitar. The melody was soft and calming, sort of jangly. It sounded like some sort of a dream.  
“What is that?” Steven asked, forgetting his nervousness and sliding down to the floor beside Johnny to watch his fingers move deftly across the strings.  
“Hmm? Oh, it’s a bit of a song,” Johnny shrugged.  
“Did you write it?” Steven asked in wonder.  
“Yeah,” Johnny smiled. “Do you like it?”  
“It’s beautiful.” As Johnny continued to play the same loop of the song, Steven sifted through his old lyrics. He paused at one set, reading them through and finding himself humming.  
“Sing it,” Johnny commanded. When Steven started to shake his head he stopped him, “No, c’mon. I just want to hear what you’ve got. I don’t care what it sounds like. Please?”  
Giving up, Steven listened to Johnny’s looped riff and began to softly sing the words on the paper.  
“ _Please don't cry_  
 _For the ghost and the storm outside_  
 _Will not invade this sacred shrine_  
 _Nor infiltrate your mind_  
 _My life down I shall lie_  
 _If the bogey-man should try_  
 _To play tricks on your sacred mind_  
 _To tease, torment, and tantalise_  
 _Wavering shadows loom_  
 _A piano plays in an empty room_  
 _There'll be blood on the cleaver tonight_  
 _And when darknesss lifts and the room is bright_  
 _I'll still be by your side_  
 _For you are all that matters_  
 _And I'll love you to till the day I die_  
 _There never need be longing in your eyes_  
 _As long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine..._ ”  
As he sang it was as though something filled the air, something like magic. His words perfectly melded with Johnny’s guitar, weaving in and out of each other before joining in a peaceful lilt. To Johnny it was like clouds parting in a rainstorm, or a last puzzle piece being fitted into an empty slot. It was like falling in love.  
Steven trailed off, looking up at Johnny.  
“What?” he asked, “You’re looking at me funny. I’m sorry if it’s bad, I haven’t even looked at these in so long...”  
“No,” Johnny blurted out earnestly, “It was great. Have you got more like that?”  
“I’ve got a whole shoebox full.”  
“I’m gonna have to write some more riffs,” Johnny grinned.


	4. Oh, Darling!

July 19, 1985  
“You ready, Moz?” Johnny asked with a grin, crouched on the ground and tuning his guitar.  
“Am I ever?” Steven asked, shakily.  
Over the past month the duo had met nearly every day to show each other little songs they’d written over the years, working them together and replaying the songs they’d already put together. It was strange and exciting, finally getting something out of years of pent up ideas and dreams.  
“You’re more ready than you think you are,” Johnny reassured him. Andy was going to join them that day to add in the basslines he’d written off of the little cassette tapes Johnny had given him. When he arrived he greeted Steven jovially, their tentative rehearsal starting up quickly.  
Steven was shy at first, barely audible above Johnny and Andy’s amps, but soon he was taken away by the music, even swaying along as he sang. The bassline gave the music a body that it didn’t have before, filling it out and bringing some of the fluttering guitar parts back to earth. Soon they’d played every song they had through at least two times and it was getting late.  
“So did you like what I did?” Andy asked, packing up his bass. Johnny and him looked to Steven, waiting for approval.  
“I loved it,” Steven smiled, “I think it worked quite nicely.”  
“I told you,” Johnny told his friend, “You’re a genius.”  
“I’m glad,” Andy said, holding his instrument case, “I think you two are doing something good here.”  
“I think so too,” Johnny smiled at Steven.  
“Hey, are you doing anything tonight?” Andy asked.  
“I’m not,” Johnny said, turning to the boy next to him, “Steven?”  
“I’m never doing anything.”  
“Perfect, you should come out! There’s this great band playing, Steven’d probably like it. They do the whole punk rock thing. Plus, their drummer’s really good,” Andy explained.  
“I’m up for it if Steven is,” Johnny said, looking to the other boy.  
“Sure,” Steven agreed, pulling on his jacket. Andy lead them to the tube and then through a few busy streets, finally ending up outside a dingy club. They could hear loud pounding music from inside, people shouting and even some glass breaking. Andy practically skipped inside, disappearing into the crowd. Johnny looked over to Steven, expecting the quiet boy to look shocked by the rowdy surroundings, but there was an excited light in his eyes and a grin across his face.  
Steven grabbed Johnny by the hand, pulling him forward into the crowd. The music pulsated through the building, shouted out rough and angry. All around them people were jumping up and down in place, or thrashing about like mad. The crowd seemed fluid, moving together however much it sloshed around. There, in the center of it all were Steven and Johnny, fused together by sweaty fingers and a too-tight grip.  
_“Oh, Darling!”_ the boy at the front of the stage sang, the music exploding around him. Steven began to let himself be moved by the crowd and the music, first bobbing his head, then swiveling his hips. Johnny found himself lost in watching the boy beside him rather than the band on stage. He watched as Steven slowly built up to thrashing just as wildly as anyone else, completely lost to the music. Johnny felt something growing in his chest as the beat of the song grew in pace, something sweet and tender in the midst of their hard, wild surroundings.  
Suddenly there was the crash of a bottle breaking and the drum beat cut out with the crash of a symbol and a loud curse. The rest of the band cut out, looking behind them to where their drummer seemed to have fallen back over his stool, knocking over his bass-drum in the process. There were loud complaints from the crowd at the sudden lack of music.  
“What the fuck, Mike?” the lead singer demanded.  
“Someone threw another fucking bottle at me!” the drummer- Mike- shouted, pulling himself to his feet. “I told you I wasn’t gonna put up with this shit anymore, Ian!”  
“C’mon, mate, just finish the set and get some ice or something.”  
“No! I’m fucking done, Ian!” Mike stormed off the stage, grabbing his drumsticks angrily.  
“Okay,” Ian sneered, turning back to his mic. “Who plays drums?”  
Soon enough an audience member was behind the drumkit, banging out a fast easy beat and the band was blasting through the next song. Steven looked at Johnny with a bewildered grin on his face.  
“Oi!” Andy appeared from in the crowd, “You two! Come over here.”  
Johnny and Steven followed him back to a side exit, ending up outside in a dimly lit alley. Against one wall leaned the leather jacket-clad, spikey-haired drummer. The boy was smoking a joint, a frown on his face.  
“Hey, uh, Mike?” Andy called, walking over to the other boy.  
“Huh?” Mike grunted around the joint.  
“Hey, I’m Andy. That’s Johnny and Steven. We all thought you were brilliant in there. Really great drummer.” The other two nodded their heads, joining him.  
“Thanks,” Mike said, cautiously.  
“So, are you going to keep playing with the Hoax?” Andy asked.  
“Uh, I dunno,” Mike shrugged. “I’ve quit a few times but Ian keeps goading me back in. I hate when people start throwing bottles though. Really fucking hurts.”  
“Come play with us!” Andy said, looking to Johnny for approval. Johnny shrugged. They’d need a drummer at some point anyway and Mike sounded good as far as he’d heard.  
“You’ve got a band?” Mike asked.  
“Yeah!” Andy said, “You should hear us. These two are great.”  
“I- uh, I’m not sure,” Mike said, sizing them each up from under furrowed eyebrows.  
“You won’t get hit by any bottles,” Johnny grinned.  
“What the hell,” Mike shrugged, “When’s your next rehearsal?”


	5. We Are The Smiths

October 4, 1985  
“I can’t believe I just did that,” Steven breathed as the lights went down on their first performance, covering him in a safe darkness. The audience's clapping died out and melded into dozens of separate conversations, becoming white noise. Steven could feel his heart beat racing in his chest as Johnny threw down his guitar, running to his side and practically throwing himself into Steven’s arms.  
“You did!” Johnny cried, his arms slung around Steven’s neck. “You were great! Did you hear them all? They were completely charmed.”  
“Well, I don’t know about _completely_ ,” Steven laughed as Andy joined them, clapping them each on the back.  
“Congratulations, lads,” he said, “They loved you!”  
“It was your ‘smooth basslines’ that brought it all together,” Johnny taunted.  
“You better believe it was!” Andy yelled, scampering off to pack up equipment.  
“Alright, I’m going to head home,” Mike told them, slipping his drumsticks into his back pocket.  
“Have a good night, Mike,” Steven smiled. “You did great.”  
“Thanks,” Mike replied, “See you on Sunday?”  
Johnny and Steven nodded and waved as he sauntered out.  
“He needs a haircut,” Steven pointed out suddenly.  
Johnny let out a surprised burst of laughter. “Mike?”  
“Yes,” Steven told him. “It’s too long. Especially in front.”  
“I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to look like that,” Johnny mused.  
“Well, I won’t be in a band with a long-haired ruffian,” Steven declared.  
“So, you’re finally admitting that we’re a band? The great Steven Morrissey, really the member of a band?” Johnny teased.  
“Shut up,” Steven shoved Johnny’s shoulder lightly.  
“C’mon,” Johnny beamed, “Let’s go to the park.” Steven allowed himself to be lead outside and the few blocks over to the park they had first visited just 4 months earlier. In no time the pair were resting on what had become their bench, Johnny’s arm folded against the back and his chin perched on his forearm.  
“So how does it feel to be the frontman of the most successful band in the UK?” Johnny asked, looking delighted.  
“We’ve played one show!” Steven said pointedly.  
“So?” Johnny laughed, “It’s only a matter of time now. You’re absolutely brilliant and now everyone else’ll have a chance to see it.”  
“I’m not-” Steven started to argue.  
“Yes you are. For once in your life, just be completely conceited. Be totally self-congratulating and vain and narcissistic.”  
“Alright, alright,” Steven paused before breaking into a wide smile. “I’m brilliant.”  
“Don’t go getting a big head, now,” Johnny warned, feigning seriousness. “It’s already too big for the rest of ya.”  
“Hey!” Steven warned.  
“No, no. Don’t worry,” Johnny brought his hand up to rest against the side of Steven’s head. “It’s a very nice head. Lot’s of good ideas.”  
“Not too big?” Steven asked.  
“Just the perfect size,” Johnny smiled. He let his hand fall just a bit until his fingers were resting comfortably against Steven’s neck. “Can I- um...”  
“Hmm?” Steven hummed, eyes wide and curious.  
“I, uh, nevermind...” Johnny trailed off, flicking his eyes back to look out over the pond.  
“What?” Steven giggled, scooting closer to him. “Tell me.”  
“I was going to ask if I could kiss you but I-”  
“Okay,” Steven broke in, casually.  
“What?” Johnny looked back at him, unsure. Steven snorted and before Johnny knew it they were kissing. When they pulled back Steven was grinning contentedly. For what felt like the first time in his life he wasn’t wondering what could have been, but what might be.


End file.
